


Family Is

by Kharasma



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, One Shot, Sleepovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kharasma/pseuds/Kharasma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 1x16. Late at night, long after a hospital visit that's left him reeling, a visit from colleagues reinforces what Detective Bell has just learned about the concept of family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Is

It was amazing how a few well-timed words from a big brother could drain all the fight out of you and flip everything you thought you knew upside down, he thought as he dragged himself to the bedroom to change into his bed clothes. He pulled out a black shirt and gray sweats---the usual. But the wad of dark cloth in his arms usually didn’t look quite right, he thought, catching a glimpse of his reflection on his way into the bathroom.  Maybe it was a stupid thing to worry about, but all the dark colors didn’t really suit his mood. He wasn’t in mourning, and thank heavens for that.

The banana-yellow shirt he eventually pulled on fit much better, he thought. Now he was free to wind down for the night. God, what to do after a night like tonight? Somehow he didn’t think he was going to bounce straight back---but he had to, wasn’t that in the job description? Marcus flopped onto the couch with a fresh mug of hot chocolate in hand and clicked the remote---maybe a classic movie would do it tonight.

Warm milk and scary movies that weren’t really scary at all. Not scary like real life. It was like he was a kid again, almost. Back in grade school, he remembered that Andre had been really into horror movies. He’d cajoled Marcus into watching with him: ‘come on Marc, it’s great! It’s so freaky.’ And so he watched. Not that Marcus was ever scared---of course not. He knew movies were just movies. He sat just a little closer to Andre than usual those nights, but that was just to make Andre feel good.

No, creepy sounds and zombie masks weren’t what scared was. Scared was staring down at your brother lying in a pool of blood when your last words to him were as callous and cruel as could be. _It didn’t happen that way,_ Marcus reminded himself forcefully, gripping his glass a little tighter than usual. _You’ve got time. Go find him in the morning._

It was so late that all good patients (and most diurnal people, to be honest) were fast asleep, so he kept the volume down low with a few clicks of the remote. The opening scene had just lit the dim apartment when a knock sounded at the door. Now that was unusual---and unusual wasn’t usually good. Who the hell would bother him now?

“Who’s there?” Marcus said a little too loudly.

“Your compatriots at the NYPD,” said a very familiar voice in response. That voice had to belong to Sherlock Holmes, the oddball detective who’d taken his spot as Gregson’s leading man, run circles around the rest of the investigators in the most aggravating way possible, and saved Marcus from arrest.

“We forgot a few things over here this afternoon,” a feminine voice chimed in, ever-present wherever the first voice was. Ms. Joan Watson. Marcus knew about the missing items already---he’d found a few things and expected them sooner or later---but it was still nice to have the explanation.

No, Sherlock didn’t get all the credit for the solved case, Marcus thought to himself. Watson too---she was the one who’d realized who was out to hurt him. In all the chaos with checking on Andre and wrapping up the case file, he’d never really had a chance to thank the new wonder-twins for keeping him out of jail. Well, that was one more thing to finish off the guilty-conscience checklist before going to sleep.

It was that thought that propelled him to the door more than anything else. Marcus checked through the peephole first---unsurprisingly, perhaps, his view was blocked by a single eye on the other side. Hazel. Sherlock’s. Part of him worried about how well he knew that eye color, but he chalked it up to the intensity of the man’s stares.

He let them in without a word, only to find that Watson had a pizza box in her arms. That was new.

She must’ve caught him looking, because she only smiled and bounced the box higher. “Sherlock and I stopped for dinner on the way over. There’s plenty for you, don’t worry.”

Marcus looked surprised, fumbling for a second. “Hey, I can take care of myself. Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

The next second, a sound reached all their ears. Even without the use of deduction. Holmes and Watson both knew that was a lie.

“You’re understandably upset by your ordeal, Detetive Bell. Undoubtedly you’re in no mood to prepare a meal for yourself, and it’s likely you were too far lost in your own concerns to think to order something. We’ve spared you the trouble,” Sherlock added helpfully, looking just a little too proud of himself for being so thoughtful. Marcus was looking at just the right angle to spot Watson rolling her eyes at her companion---okay, so maybe it _wasn’t_ Sherlock’s idea.

Marcus hesitated to accept more help, looking doubtfully between the two of them. “I thought you two said you were here to pick up your stuff.”

“Oh yes, that. Well, we’ve just been researching our magnificent new friend in our spare time. I also dropped a few pocket items, however, and if you’ll excuse me I’ll just sweep through the apartment and have a look---“

“No need,” Marcus cut in suddenly, with an intensity that surprised himself. He gently took the pizza box from Watson and set it on the table, setting about distributing the slices to alleviate the awkwardness of the situation. “You left behind a keychain of a pink flamingo, some fancy old button, a pack of tissues, an evidence bag, a tiny flashlight, a turtle care book, and half a cup of yogurt. It’s all over there in that basket, except the yogurt. Had to throw it out, you understand right?”

“Right,” Sherlock grinned proudly, immediately moving to the teapot on Marcus’s stove and firing it up with a quick spin of his wrist. “You’ll recall that I said you were no idiot, Detective Bell. You are a fine detective and perform your work admirably, even when under emotional duress. Perhaps one day I can take you on as my apprentice as well.” 

“Why thank you, Sherlock---wait a minute, what do you mean _as well_?” Marcus asked, baffled. Something big had to have changed between them. He instinctively stepped a little closer to Watson. Was it his imagination, or was she watching him more closely than usual? He felt a little twinge of anxiety there, one that was quickly pushed aside when Sherlock arrived with tea for himself and a glass of water for Watson.

Watson was the one who answered him, taking over in the quest to set the table. As she pushed her hair over her shoulder, Marcus noticed that Sherlock seemed to be beaming at her whenever she wasn’t looking. “I’m an apprentice detective now.  It’s…complicated, but I decided I really like working with you guys. I’ll be staying if that’s all right.”

“All right? It’s more than fine, believe me,” Marcus said with a little smile. In truth, he was quite glad that she wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. He didn‘t really have a handle on Sherlock, and Sherlock’s relationship with the captain was strained beyond belief, so that left Watson as the only real choice to rein him in. The relief must’ve shown too strongly on his face, because she shared a little grin with him as she passed him his slice.

“Hot chocolate and pizza? Interesting combination of flavors,” Sherlock observed, raising an eyebrow when he took a whiff of Marcus’s mug. Said mug was quickly pulled away from Sherlock’s nose.

“Yeah, what of it?” Marcus mumbled.

“It’s just not usually what goes with pizza, is it?” Watson asked, though her choice of water didn’t exactly strike Marcus as much more suited for pizza.

“Look, it’s what I like. I’ve been doing this for ages.” he said, taking a large bite out of the pizza to keep himself from having to say more.

“Since you were a kid, right? With Andre?” Watson asked shrewdly. She pulled her chair away from Sherlock’s---her partner could be an extremely messy eater when he wanted to be. He seemed determined to individually inhale every small slice of mozzarella cheese.

Marcus nodded, thickly swallowing his big bite of pizza. “Yeah. We loved milk. Hot or cold, any time, with anything. When we were real little, Andre thought milk moustaches were hilarious.”

Watson’s eyes seemed to sparkle---or was that his imagination? “When I was a kid, I was always neat with my food---unlike some people I know,” she said, looking at Sherlock. He only munched a piece of cheese particularly slowly in response as Watson kept talking. “I ate pancakes in perfectly diced little squares. It took forever, but I thought it looked so neat. But if you gave me a straw and a smoothie, I’d blow bubbles until they burst in my face!”

“No way,” Marcus said, a hint of a smile almost returning to his face.

“It’s true!” Watson insisted, pulling a straw from the folds of her coat. “Are you done with that cocoa?”

Ah, Marcus could see where this was going. He picked up the mug, tilted his head back for one last long drink, then passed it over to her. “All right, show us.”

“Yes, please do,” Sherlock chimed in, having finally conquered the cheese and decided to pay attention to his companions. He glanced at Marcus just once with a wicked smile before returning his attention to his partner.

Watson shot him an exasperated look, then tied her hair back in a quick ponytail. When that was done, she placed her straw in the remaining cocoa, puffed up her cheeks, and blew. She blew into that cocoa so hard that it nearly burst in her face, but she pulled back just in time with a look of triumph. Marcus couldn’t help the smile that showed on his face. For once, Sherlock’s expression mirrored his.

“It’s a musical sound,” Sherlock said approvingly, stirring his tea with an odd smile. “Though I wouldn’t have expected such a messy habit from you, Watson.”

“Hey, everybody needs to blow off steam somehow,” she answered proudly, though her voice felt full of meaning. Was she trying to send him a message, Marcus wondered. Maybe he’d better share something with them before they try to force him into admitting something. And there _was_ something he needed to say before he could sleep soundly tonight. He took a shallow breath.

“Hey, Sherlock, Joan,” he said, tentatively pausing on Ms. Watson’s name. It was all right to be on a first name basis with someone who’d blown bubbles in his face, right? “Look, I didn’t get to say this earlier because things got kinda hectic after the case was closed. But…thanks. If you hadn’t trusted me, hadn’t helped me see what was going on, I’d be down on the other side of the bars.” He looked seriously at each of them, conveying his gratitude with a brief lifting of the mug Joan had blown into.

Sherlock brushed off his thanks with a well-timed smirk, as Marcus had expected. “Well, as I’ve told Ms. Watson, if we lost you to the prison system we’d need to begin our partnership anew with another detective. It would be a needless waste of time and efficiency to let go of a perfectly good partner.”

Joan muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Sherlock’ under her breath, then reached over to pat Marcus’s wrist. “And as _I’ve_ told Sherlock, you’re part of the family now. We’re not letting you go without a fight.”

Family. In light of everything that happened, Marcus had to consider it a strange word to think of them as. Families look out for each other no matter what, as Andre had so pointedly reminded him just a few hours before. And in this instance, Joan and Sherlock had done exactly that. Sherlock had even been willing to bend the truth to keep Marcus out of jail, just as Andre had. Not that Marcus would ever be comfortable with that, but…that was just another way to protect family, wasn’t it?

“Hey, I’ve got your backs too,” Marcus said softly, giving Joan’s hand a quick squeeze before  letting her go. “Even yours,” he added to Sherlock, though his genuine smile took the bite out of his words.

Sherlock had looked strangely distant for that minute. From what he’d heard, Sherlock hadn’t exactly had the best family life either. But before Marcus could begin to figure out what the man must be thinking, Sherlock resumed his amused expression. “Watson, would I be correct in my belief that it is a family member’s duty to keep their close associates from continuing to embarrass themselves?”

Joan’s expression couldn’t have said ‘oh great, here we go again’ any clearer. “Sometimes, Sherlock, but there’s this little thing called tact that you’re becoming acquainted with.”

Marcus felt the companionable mood start to fade. He folded his arms over his chest defensively. “Look, will you two quit talking in code and get to the point already?”

“Gladly,” Sherlock said just a little too quickly. “You’ll notice if you touch your upper lip, Detective Bell, that you’ve now donned a milk moustache.” Marcus lifted a hand toward his face, mortified.

Joan rescued him by quickly depositing a tissue in his hand. “That should take care of it. Just make sure you get the far right,” she whispered kindly. He did so without another word, making a face as the two visitors exchanged smiles. It felt like home for a moment, and the thought made something inside his head ache. Pushing that aside, he cleared the table with some help from his partners, pausing only when he heard a surprisingly loud yawn from Sherlock. Now that he was cued into it, Marcus noticed that Sherlock’s movements were unusually sluggish. The detective disappeared into the hallway after a few moments, and Marcus assumed it was safer to let him be than to follow him. After a few more minutes of sweeping crumbs and packing up leftovers, he opted to join Joan at the sink.

“Has he slept at all?” Marcus muttered to Joan as they attacked the pile of dishes, using the spray hose to clear out some of the tougher stains.

“Not since you were accused,” she answered quietly, drying and polishing the remainder of the dishes with a skilled hand. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep either, to be honest with you.”

“Why, has he been up playing detective all hours of the night? Not that I’m not used to that, but it had to be an adjustment for you,” Marcus said, now elbow-deep in soap as he scrubbed. In truth, he bit his lip with worry---they’d been that worried about him? Man, he owed them more than he thought.

“Not as much as you’d think. Surgeons don’t get much sleep, and neither do sober companions. You really need to learn the skill of falling asleep anywhere, anytime,” she said, blinking a few times more than usual. “And you’ve gotta know how to stay awake too.”

“Scary movies?” Marcus suggested with a little grin.

“Nah. Exercise. Getting the blood pumping.”

“Jogging?”

“That and squats.”

“I’m guessing you’re some kind of squat champion.”

“Only the best,” Joan said proudly. “I took Sherlock on as an apprentice. He was so sore he could hardly move the next day.”

“Is that a challenge?” Marcus asked. Because if it was, there was no way he was letting Sherlock Holmes out-squat him.

“It could be one if you want it to,” Joan said with a smile. “Though now that you mention it, maybe we should find him. He’s been awfully quiet.”

“You’re right. I don’t like that. Sherlock!” Marcus called down the hallway, sounding cheerier than he had for most of the night. “Come on. What’re you getting into?

“Sherlock?” Joan asked at Marcus’s side. The pair looked at each other when the expected response didn’t come, then split up to search the hallway. They met at the door to Marcus’s bedroom after a string of empty rooms. Shrugging at each other, they entered…

…to find Sherlock soundly asleep, stretched across the entire width of Marcus’s bed. His hands held loose fistfuls of the fabric of the blanket, as if he’d been trying to deduce fifty things about Marcus from his choice of bedding. Marcus believed the man would have at least ten deductions by the time he woke up.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just ‘cause we’re family doesn’t mean we’re that kind of family yet. He is _not_ taking my bed tonight.”

Joan was already on the scene in her doctor mode, sitting on the bed beside Sherlock. She checked her partner’s head movements and pulse. “He’s in SWS. When he’s like this, you don’t want to wake him up. He gets very cranky.”

“SWS? You mean deep sleep?” Marcus sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed that Sherlock now occupied.

“Yeah. We’re not getting him up.”

“So he _is_ taking my bed tonight.”

“And I guess I’m staying here too. Do you have a sleeping bag or something we could use?” she asked, frowning down at her sleeping partner.

“Yeah, I’ve got two and the couch. But you can go back to wherever you’re staying. No reason you need to stay here with him, right?”

“It’s really late, I’d rather not,” she said, punctuating the end of that sentence with a yawn. Well, Marcus supposed he couldn’t argue with that.

“All right, fine. You take the couch and a few pillows. I’ll take the floor here.”

“Are you sure? It’s your couch and Sherlock already took your bed.”

“I’m not leaving him alone in my room. I’m just not.”

“I can see your point,” Joan conceded. She stood to wash up for bed, then turned back in the doorway to face Marcus. “Sleep well, all right? Feel free to wake me if you need anything.”

He groused a little at the implication that he’d especially need help tonight, but he appreciated it all the same. And he _was_ grateful that they’d decided not to pry any more. There was definitely hope for a talk in the future, but maybe not tonight. Still…“You promise not to do anything crazy if I do? Not that I’ll need it, just saying. If there’s an emergency.”

“Promise. Trust me, I’ve had practice. Good night, Marcus,” she whispered.

“Sleep tight, Joan,” he whispered back, closing his eyes as she closed the door.

\---

“Come on now, Detective Bell. I’m perfectly aware that you’re awake. Your pulse and breathing betray you.”

The next thing he knew, Marcus found himself being poked into alertness by Sherlock Holmes. The man looked even more wide-eyed and upbeat than usual, something that shouldn’t have been surprising and yet was. His clothing was even perfectly straight despite the fact that he’d slept in it, shoes and all. Marcus guessed that he must’ve had ten cups of tea already.

“Yeah, I’m awake. So what?”

“So! It’s time for your breakfast,” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly, reaching down to help Marcus to his feet. Marcus squinted at the offered hand suspiciously for a moment, then realized that the hand in his face wasn’t going to go away any time soon. He took it and was hauled upright, then dusted on the shoulders. “I owe you my apologies for taking your bed last night, Detective Bell. I wasn’t expecting to feel such complete exhaustion.”

“Didn’t do enough squats?” Marcus suggested, rubbing what remained of sleep from his eyes.

“No, I suppose not. Well, come on then! I’ve made eggs benedict. Visiting hours at the hospital begin in one hour and I expect you’ll want to see your brother as soon as possible.”

“How’d you know I liked…”

“I found a receipt from a local diner famous for its eggs benedict on your bedside table. While my cooking may not be as famous in this city as Lady Caroline’s, I assure you that my food is quite edible. And if you don’t believe me, you may ask Ms. Watson.”

“Oh, so you cook for her too? That’s not the kind of partnership I expected with you two.” They were unusually close for partners that had met in the strange way they did. Honestly, they were more like family…and they were, he realized, as the two of them had already had that bond when they’d reached out to include him.

Sherlock only smiled proudly, hustling him into the bathroom to get cleaned up for breakfast. When Marcus arrived at his table, he found Joan pouring three glasses of orange juice, her hair falling out of its ponytail messily. Somehow, she still managed to add elegance to the look.

“Good morning! I hope this is okay? No acid problems?” she asked, handing him him a glass.

“It’s great, don’t worry,” he said, perfectly content to eat and drink whatever they served up. But he couldn’t stop the niggling feeling of self-consciousness that gnawed at the edge of his mind as he sat at the table. “Listen, you guys don’t have to do all this. Really. I’m fine.”

“Consider it repayment for our unexpected consumption of your space and various resources,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, grinning at him around his English muffin piled up with the works.

“It’s really not a problem. We liked the change of scenery,” Joan added, passing him a freshly washed apple with a knowing expression that implied she didn’t believe him for a second.

“Well…all right. But does this all mean you’re expecting me for a sleepover at the brownstone sometime?” he asked suspiciously.

“We wouldn’t expect anything less,” Sherlock said with a knowing grin.

“Okay, but no nail painting,” Marcus groused, wrinkling his nose.

“I was hoping you’d paint mine. They’re a little tricky to reach sometimes,” Joan grinned, flashing her fingernails.

“Well, Ms. Watson, since you’ve asked so nicely…”

“Hey, the lady asked me!”

The three detectives looked at each other across the table, noticing the absurdity of their argument at precisely the same time. Marcus was the first to laugh: then Joan, then Sherlock.

Yes, this was definitely a family breakfast. Marcus was glad to have this little family of his. And he was just as proud of Andre, he knew that now. He couldn’t wait to tell him about everything. With a little luck, some understanding, and a lot of humility…maybe the two Bell brothers could have time like this again.

He could only hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I veer too far into the fluffy and silly? I originally intended for this piece to be darker, but it didn't want to cooperate. Hopefully later episodes will be fuel for what I still want to write. Anyway, there it was. My continued love letter to the relationship between these three.
> 
> (Someday I will write Gregson in. Someday!)


End file.
